Bill Dwyre remembers Jim Murray in his Friday column:
When it was time to get to know a new young sports editor in 1981, Murray set up a golf game at Riviera. The new kid didn't play much then and was fairly overwhelmed just standing on the first tee at Riviera. Soon, on the par-five first hole, the group found itself on the green with everybody else putting for five or six and Murray somehow lying three.
His birdie putt was about 50 feet, with one of those Riviera double breaks to start and then a break to the left before flattening out at the hole. Murray, in his late 50s then, but always a bit feeble after battles with eye problems and a malfunctioning heart valve, hunched over his putt, stroked it and watched as it went left, then right, then left again before straightening into the cup. Slowly, he walked to the hole and picked the ball out, then stood silently as the others focused on staying out of double figures.
When all had putted out, he quietly walked to the cart, sat down and waited for his guest to join him. The drive to the second tree was short, but by then, Murray could stand it no longer.
"Sometimes, I miss those left," he said. His huge grin foreshadowed what was to come. He shot 112.